Swing Club

Yeah, one of those. I was curious.

I made a profile as a couple on a swingers website and signed us up to go to a party. The organizers had rented out a B&B for the night down the river a piece, down in one of the once-unique towns that have long since been absorbed into suburban sprawl. The ads for the party touted the sexiest couples and respectfully asked people dress up, come to party upscale, come dressed to impress and, presumably, undress. But entry for couples was free before 9pm, and that suggested to me they weren’t asking for much. Single women were free too. Single men are not allowed at such things.

We rolled in late, paid the premium to a terrifically cheerful and trim man about five feet tall, and were led to the bar whence we would soon get a tour. The bar had dance music and a temporary-looking stripper pole and a motley collection of young to advanced-middle-aged couples who for the most part seemed to be looking for the party to start. We sat with a couple of really bad cocktails to absorb the atmosphere and noticed right off the diversity of the crowd. Not its racial diversity, though it had that, but that while some of the women were nicely set out, there were also men dressed down in shorts and striped polo shirts. We were nonplussed. Should one not make an effort? Besides, stripes are for children.

My partner looked around and said that in about five minutes she was going to start something but then the bartender collected us to show us around. She was as cheerful and diminutive as her husband. The tour took no more than a few minutes. Two play rooms downstairs -- bedrooms with the king-size beds stripped down to the sheets and large tubs and a rule that doors must always be open -- and the “boom-boom” room upstairs, a playroom with several beds. The rooms were empty at this time except the boom-boom room, where a woman relaxing in a chair with a drink said it was quiet now but that in about two hours it would be full of naked bodies. Comparing notes later, we found we both had the same reaction to that: Ew.

Down in the bar we danced a bit to get the juices flowing. There were no small number of sourpusses, still waiting. Even the DJ had a scowl. The bar action was fairly brisk but not terrifically enthusiastic. In all the place was like one of those little bars in once-unique towns that have long since been absorbed into suburban sprawl, the patrons appearing bored and not a little desperate.

Some sort of show was supposed to start at the next hour so we went outside to wait. Upon arrival we had noticed a couple hammocks between the parking lot and a recently disked field. Now we climbed into one of those and talked and so on, enjoying the harvest moon dappling down through the cottonwoods and the cool autumn night air.

At showtime we followed the crowd into what was normally the TV room and found sitting space on the floor. There was a mattress in the center of the room and a couple chicks making out on the mattress. They were very good-looking, nice figures and tits -- though at least one set was likely an enhanced version -- and wearing bikini lingerie. They made all the moves but didn’t seem to actually be having fun. To me it looked scripted. Some of the moves were too intentional, the rhythms disconnected from their coupling, as though set to a porn soundtrack I couldn’t hear. In time the lingerie came off and they got into having fingers-and-tongue sex, and a glimmer of realness, of actual lovemaking, finally appeared. But it didn’t last long, and the show ended to scattered applause.

Throughout the proceedings, couples in the audience occasionally peeled off and disappeared. Now with it over an elderly gentleman who had watched frowning with his arms folded sent his scantily-clad girlfriend into the ring so he could watch her play with herself. Some others watched too. We did not.

At the bar we got more bad drinks and took them for a walk. One of the downstairs rooms’ door was closed. The other seemed empty so we figured why not and started to make out on the bed. But a splash and a sigh revealed two enormously fat people in the tub and the idea of them watching us rather changed the tone and we left. Out in the hall we were approached by a couple who attempted small talk about this club and another club they had been to, but we got away up the stairs to see what was going on in the boom-boom room. Three or four couples were getting some action started while several more people stood along the walls watching. It was extraordinarily quiet –- the place needed music, but even without music the pair of us would be making more noise than the dozen or so in that room. We seriously considered taking over the as-yet unused bed in the corner, but only about as seriously as you can consider something for two tenths of a second while you wonder about the cleanliness of the sheets. We went back downstairs.

Our hallways friends were in the bar and my partner found herself dancing with the woman while I got a beer. I looked over the up-ended bottle to see her mouthing the words “Let’s go!” and suddenly found myself really thirsty. We wandered out the door and through the parking lot shaking our heads at the fact that not one person in that place truly appeared to be having fun, or even capable of it. Everyone bore an atmosphere of unresolved issues and attempted relationship repair under the same false smiles you see at every other meat market. So we swung in the hammock again. After awhile I grabbed a blanket out of the trunk and we wandered out into the recently disked field to enjoy the full harvest moon.